by T. A. White
“You don’t remember then.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Shea shook her head anyways.
“I find the pathfinders of today not what they once were,” he stated. There was the slightest shift in expression. Shea got the sense the words were a test, but she wasn’t sure how. “Once, your people would have already stopped this problem before it could become the threat it has. You’ve faded much in the last centuries. You are no longer the worthy adversaries you once were.”
“That’s not exactly surprising.” Shea didn’t let his words bother her.
She’d be the first to admit that the centuries had taken their toll. Where once their numbers had been great, they were now a pale shadow of their former assemblage. The empty rooms at the Keep were evidence of that. Shea’s former home was large, and it had once been home to at least three times its current number.
Some of that was due to a few changes, but most stemmed from the pathfinders’ fall from favor in most of the Highlanders’ consciousness. They were less willing than ever before to send their sons and daughters to take up the pathfinder’s mantle. It was no longer seen as a position of respect, but more a choice you made if you had no other options.
That meant substandard recruits, leading to fewer who could pass the tests.
Covath studied her, his claws clicking together as he thought.
Shea looked around. “Is this a dream?”
There was the smallest shift in his expression that Shea thought might have been an indication of amusement.
“That is a simplistic way of looking at it,” he said.
Shea frowned at him, not understanding. It either was or it wasn’t. There wasn’t a lot of wiggle room in the definition.
“Your body is in a state of slumber; however, this conversation is real.”
“How is that possible?” Shea asked.
“I am a dreamwalker—someone able to contact another through dreams.” He was quiet while Shea processed that. “Your people were once known for this ability as well.”
Shea reared back and gave the three mythologicals—for that’s what she suspected each of these were—a suspicious glance. The horned horse stomped its feet and tossed its head while the bat creature shifted.
“There is nothing in our records of such a thing,” Shea said slowly. Though to be honest, there wasn’t anything about these creatures in there either.
Covath cocked his head, interest on his face. “That surprises me. The ability was one of the reasons your people held their position of power. Perhaps the seal had a greater effect on them than they anticipated.”
Shea’s forehead wrinkled, the statement catching her off guard. She could envision ways being a dreamwalker might come in handy. It would enable you to communicate across great distances in a very short time span, warning of immediate problems.
An interesting talent, but with limited application.
Unless, there was more to it.
“The dreamwalkers could walk through another’s dream and spy on them, couldn’t they?” Shea asked in sudden realization.
Covath didn’t answer, those enigmatic eyes she couldn’t read focused on her.
She was betting she was right. It would explain so much. Her dreams over these past few months—they weren’t nightmares. They were memories—or if he was to be believed—she was dreamwalking.
If that was the case, it was a powerful talent after all.
“Why wouldn’t they have left some record of that?” she asked, more for herself than Covath.
As expected, no answer was forthcoming.
Her attention returned to the creature in front of her. “What seal are you talking about?”
This time he bared his teeth, the sharp fangs of his incisors reminding Shea that this was a predator. She’d do best to remember that.
“The one your people established in the dark years after the second cataclysm.” The expressions the mythologicals aimed at Shea were full of menace, a grim promise that said they would like to paint their bodies with her blood. Based upon their expressions, Shea deduced the seal had perhaps had a negative impact on them.
It made sense, if this mystery seal was responsible for locking away certain abilities. As a mythological, said to possess odd abilities themselves and the fact that they hadn’t been spotted in the world for centuries, she had to wonder if the seal had been responsible for keeping them from interacting with humans as well.
That begged the question of what had changed. A sinking feeling in her stomach indicated she already knew what had caused the seeping of magic and other things back into the world.
She was that fulcrum. Well, her and the rest of the pathfinders who had tried to make it to the heart of the Badlands, which housed the insanity that had once infected this land.
“You’re saying I’m the reason all this happened,” Shea said through numb lips. That she was the reason for so much death and destruction.
“Don’t flatter yourself, human,” the bat creature said. “It was only a matter of time before the seal broke. The evil at the heart has been leaking out for decades. It had become weakened through the ages. Your group’s blundering simply woke the old one who finished the deed.”
Shea took a deep breath. That was something at least, though it didn’t absolve her of all responsibility.
“We really must thank you for that,” Covath said. “We had long been locked away from the world. In your ancestors’ desire to protect themselves from the world devourer, they also made it so we couldn’t fly free.” His wings flared and then settled. “Freedom has been a long time coming.”
“What does any of this have to do with this dream?” Shea asked. Granted, it was an interesting bit of information, if true, but it didn’t tell her why these beings had called her here.
“Because we have no love for humans. They have been our enemies almost since the moment we came to this world,” Covath stated, his face arrogant and cruel, a well-honed blade that thirsted for blood.
“Uh huh,” Shea said. She couldn’t say she was surprised. Her people’s stories painted mythologicals as the worst of the beasts, known for their insatiable appetites.
Covath looked down at her with an arrogant expression, his gaze filled with distaste. “However, we like the rys even less.”
Shea felt her interest perk up, the term—rys—it was one she hadn’t encountered before. The way he said it, like it was a filthy word, told her it had significance. Probably of a dangerous nature.
The horse creature tossed its head. Covath nodded as if it had said something.
“If things continue as they have been, we will once again be enslaved by our enemies,” he said, his voice little more than a growl.
“And you wish us to do something about it,” Shea said, connecting the dots.
“Yess,” he hissed. “This is partly your fault. You need to fix it. We wish to propose a temporary alliance.”
Shea hesitated. Alliances, truces, and things of that nature weren’t really in her skill set. That was more Fallon’s responsibility.
“You will rid the world of the betrayer, and we will help you,” Covath said.
“The betrayer?” she asked.
“The one you once knew as Griffin,” he said. “He’s stolen something from you. If he brings it to the heart of the lost, he will gain control of not only what waits there, but of many mythologicals.”
Shea folded her arms over her shoulder. “And you don’t want that? Somehow I find that hard to believe.”
Covath’s gaze was steady on hers. “We are tired of being another’s slaves. It cost us greatly in the past. We would like a ‘fresh start’, as you humans say.”
Shea lifted an eyebrow, studying him in return. An alliance between mythologicals and humans. It was an interesting proposition. It hadn’t escaped her notice this offer came after Fallon had defeated the beast army.
Still, could they af
ford to turn them away?
“What would this alliance entail?” Shea asked.
Covath and the horned horse exchanged a glance. “Your people have long hunted ours. We would like that stopped.”
“Just as your people have made a habit of eating mine,” Shea pointed out.
They might think themselves the victims, but she had grown up with stories of mythologicals. They were not so innocent of wrongdoing as he would like her to believe.
The bat creature shifted as the other two watched her with assessing gazes.
She gave them an expectant look. “Just so we’re each clear. I’m not agreeing to anything that hinders our ability to fight off an attack. We have just as much right to defend ourselves as you.”
“Humans. You always assume the worst of us. My people do not prey on your kind. We consider those who consume the flesh of sentient creatures to be tainted by the very thing that turned this world to ruin,” he said, his voice a low growl.
“Maybe that’s true for your people.” Shea dropped her arms as she balanced on the balls of her feet. She didn’t know if she could be hurt in this dream, but the instinct for defense when a hunter nears was hard to deny. “Can you say the same for the rest of the mythologicals?”
There were stories upon stories featuring mythologicals and the terror they had wreaked on the rest of the Broken Lands when they ran loose. Today, most of those stories were considered myth and fantasy, having been retold over so many generations they could no longer be considered strictly fact. However, Shea suspected there was more than one piece of truth in those retellings.
He didn’t say anything, just watched her with those dark eyes.
That was alright with her. She knew it to be true. “I think we’re a lot more alike than either of us wants to admit,” Shea said. “Neither one of our species can be categorized as just one thing or another.”
“If that’s the case, perhaps this alliance is doomed before it starts,” Covath challenged.
“Shea,” a voice called.
Shea ignored it. She needed to make Covath understand. Just because something seemed impossible didn’t mean it was. The only way to get to the top of a mountain was to take one step at a time. If you thought about the journey ahead of you while still standing at its base, you’d be defeated mentally long before you got anywhere near the summit.
Shea started to argue with him. Before she could do more than open her mouth, a hand grabbed her shoulder and a voice said, “Shea.”
Shea woke with a start, straightening in her chair as she blinked at her surroundings in confusion. For a moment she had dual vision, the scene of the clinic superimposed over that of the strange dreamscape she’d just left.
Trenton stood beside her. It was his hand that had pulled her from the dream. He frowned down at her. She looked from him to Chirron, whose tired gaze met hers. He’d taken a seat on one of the cots next to her stool. Exhaustion lined his face and his lean frame looked gaunt. He’d worked tirelessly over the last few hours to save those he could and comfort those he couldn’t. It had taken its toll on the man.
Warmth crept up her arm, taking with it some of the aches and pains that were leftover from the day’s battle. She noted with a start that he held her hand in his and the spot where he touched her was the origin of that strange tingling warmth.
She gave his hand a squeeze of gratitude before removing hers from his grip. “You should preserve your strength for those who need it.”
He looked faintly surprised at her words. She imagined not many understood his abilities. If they did, there was a very good chance he’d be ostracized. People tended to react poorly to things they didn’t understand. If he’d been born in the Highlands, his village elders would have driven him out at the first sign of oddity. She could only assume the Trateri were more tolerant of a person’s strangeness. They’d kept her, after all.
It was a rare ability, but perhaps not always if Covath was to be believed.
It wasn’t magic—she didn’t much care for that term—but it was something that couldn’t be explained by modern thinking.
He didn’t question her statement or ask clarification on what she meant. That, more than anything, confirmed her suspicion his position as healer was to hide his innate ability to heal with a touch.
“All of the wounded have been tended to,” he said with a tired voice. “There’s no reason to leave my telroi in pain.”
“Except even I can see you’re exhausted,” Shea returned, her expression frank. “Rest. I suspect this won’t be the last long night you have.”
She patted him on the shoulder as she stood. He was right. She was sore, and there were parts of her that hurt where she’d never hurt before. The jump off the wall and the battle had affected her body more than she had realized.
The one good thing about adrenaline was that it enabled you to mask pain even from yourself, enabling you to perform feats your body would normally prevent you from attempting. It did make the aftermath a bitch to deal with, however.
Shea stepped out of the makeshift infirmary, Trenton trailing behind her. Despite the short nap, she didn’t feel any more rested. Exhaustion still weighed on her, making every step an effort.
“Where’s Fallon?” she asked.
“He’s meeting with Darius and the rest,” was the quiet response.
Shea’s progress halted and she hung her head. She wanted her bed almost more than she wanted her next breath. It was becoming less of a want and more of a necessity with each passing moment, but she couldn’t find rest when Fallon was out there still working. He would be every bit as tired as she was, having done a lot more actual fighting than she had.
With a weary sigh, she reversed direction. “Take me to him.”
*
Fallon strode into the tent, giving the Anateri guarding the entrance an absent-minded acknowledgment as they saluted, his attention already totally focused on the coming battle.
For that’s what he was walking into. A battle. One fought with words and false platitudes rather than the steel and blade he’d used earlier in the day.
“There are too many bodies in this tent,” he said as he stalked to his seat at the head of the table. “Anyone who was not invited, get out.”
There was a brief shuffling as people slowly filed toward the door. Their slow movements sped up when Darius barked, “The Warlord said get out. Do so now!”
Fallon kept his amusement concealed as the slow exodus turned into a pushing and shoving match as they hurried for the door.
Darius looked over at Fallon, his eyes alight with mirth at the scene. His light blue eyes were striking next to his dark skin. Darius was often considered to be more easygoing than the rest of Fallon’s generals. He was the one Fallon went to when he needed someone who was charming and persuasive. The man had a silver tongue capable of convincing a grandma to part with her dignity.
He was tall with high cheekbones and a broad nose. The women loved him. It didn’t hurt that he was also handsome and considered Fallon’s strong right-hand man. He’d earned his place by Fallon’s side. He was one of Fallon’s most merciless generals, persistent and vindictive when he needed to be, but most never saw the stone-cold killer he hid beneath the affable mask he normally wore.
“Report,” Fallon barked. Only when one of his commanders stood to run through the afternoon’s losses did Fallon let himself sink onto the pillow chair behind him.
Assembled around a short wooden table on pillows similar to Fallon’s were some of the best in Fallon’s army. Two of his generals were present, as well as every clan leader who had joined the main group in the Lowlands. There were still a few overseeing Fallon’s interests in the southern Lowlands and their old territories in the Outlands, but this was the majority of his people’s leadership.
Despite ejecting two-thirds of those who’d originally gathered, he was still left with a bigger group than he’d like. It was difficult to
make decisions when there were so many voices in the mix.
People, even his people, tended to resort to herd mentality when the numbers got too great, letting emotions lead them instead of logic. They couldn’t afford such weaknesses at the moment.
“It could be worse. The casualties are less than we had any right to expect,” Braden said once the man had finished reporting the numbers for each division of Fallon’s army.
Braden was right, but that didn’t make the burn of loss hurt any less. It was their greatest number of casualties since they’d begun the campaign to conquer the Lowlands. And it had come at the claws of beasts.
“How many beasts escaped?” Fallon asked.
“I’d guess just under half,” Darius responded, leaning forward. “They’re able to go places we can’t. Those that could, went right up the side of the mountain and unlike your telroi, most of us don’t have a spider’s abilities to climb vertical surfaces on horseback.”
Fallon would have been happier if that number had been a lot lower. Even with an army reduced in size, their enemy was still dangerous. Fallon suspected Griffin could easily replenish his numbers, making the situation worse.
Conversation continued as they ran through the administrative components of war—supply chains, resources, and the like.
The Trateri had cleared the beasts from the upper part of the valley and Fallon’s people had established an interim camp there. A suggestion had been brought up to move the entirety of the clans into the Keep where the strong defenses would offer shelter in case the beasts chose to attack again.
He’d refused that suggestion. His people were primarily migratory and unused to being locked away behind barriers made of stone. They might survive for a time, but the enforced closeness of quarters would eventually lead to tension, which was the last thing they needed.
“We should follow the beasts and cut them off now before they can regroup,” Ben, the clan leader of Earth clan, declared. The youngest of the leaders, Ben was one of the few to gain that status by walking a path other than as a warrior. As one of the best weapons makers in Fallon’s army, he garnered a different type of respect than was given to his generals but held as much weight in its own way.